Storytelling has always been an integral component of Island life, for, as one researcher put it, it was “the only entertainment people had” (3). And many of the stories told around the fire on those cold nights of years-gone-by were those of phantoms and forerunners.

Prince Edward Island has a long and fanciful history surrounding folklore, and the Eastern end of the Island is no exception. Folklore and ghost stories have been handed down from generation to generation, and often serve not only to entertain and frighten, but to share a warning or a lesson.

Often times these stories attempted to explain the seemingly supernatural events which occurred in the lives of ordinary people, and other times they served to assuage the deeply held fear which gripped the hearts of those brave souls who eked out an existence in what was at times a lonely and unforgiving place.

Whatever their purpose, no matter their origin, the folklore of our Island is as much a part of our cultural heritage as any song or dance, and while today these stories aren’t as common as they once were, you needn’t look far to find someone willing to dim the lights and share with you a terrifying tale from the past.

An artist's rendition of the burning ship. No photographs of the phenomenon are known to exist.

The Phantom Ship

The Phantom Ship is perhaps the most well known spectre in Island folklore. Reported to be a three masted schooner, hearkening back from the halcyon days of Island ship building, this spectral vessel will appear on the water without notice, and sails smoothly along over the waves. With sightings dating back over 200 years, observers have reported watching it for up to an hour, before it abruptly, and without warning, bursts into a spectacular display of orange flame, before sinking mournfully into the water (10).

But there is one visceral detail which adds to the macabre nature of the phantom ship, and that is the tortured nature of the souls who are witnessed to remain on board the doomed vessel. Many observers, both from sea and land, have reported watching helplessly as the flames spread across the ship, only to watch in horror as the figures of men --the sailors aboard the ship-- dash frantically about the deck before diving overboard in agony. Their cries can be heard for miles, echoing over the open water as they are burned alive, and although rescue attempts have been made, none have even been successful.

One such attempt at reaching these poor souls took place in Charlottetown around the year 1900. The flaming ship was spotted from the shore near the harbour, and a small group of brave sailors boarded a rowboat in an effort to reach the ship in time to rescue the crew on board. But incredibly, before the rowboat could reach the distressed vessel, the phantom ship vanished completely (10). A search was immediately carried out by divers, but no evidence of the ship was ever found.

And a report such as this is not out of the ordinary. Consider the following testimony from a witness of the phantom ship, who saw something much the same. As he explains, “we got up on the banks to watch. I saw smoke rising very slowly all over the deck. Then it was only a few minutes I saw men that seemed to come up from below and they were running around the deck every way. Then as they were running around I saw a low flame all over the deck. When the flames started the men climbed up the masts of the vessel. When they were about halfway up the masts the sails caught. All the sails seemed to catch at the same time. I could not see the men any more as the flames hid my view. We watched it until the flames died and everything crumbled to the deck. There was nothing left but the hull on the water, and gradually it seemed to sink lower and finally disappeared as if it gradually filled with water and sunk” (11).

This map shows the areas most commonly associated with sightings of the Phantom Ship in the Northumberland Strait. In recent years, sightings have been reported in the Gulf of St. Lawrence as well. Image: The Island Magazine.

And perhaps accounts such as these could be discredited on their own, but it is often the case, as occurred with the group of men in the rowboat in Charlottetown harbour described above, that the phantom ship is witnessed by many people, and for a prolonged period of time. In fact, there is even a recorded instance of the car ferry, the Prince Nova, witnessing the burning ship while travelling the Wood Islands-Caribou route between PEI and Nova Scotia.

The sight was so alarming that the ferry even diverted its regular course in order to aid the burning ship, “only to have it disappear into thin air when approached at close range” (11). This event left such an impact on the crew that in later years Northumberland Ferries staff was directed not to attempt to interfere in further rescues of the burning ship.

Many have speculated that the ship is merely an illusion, some sort of optical distortion created by wind, waves, fog, electricity, or even the moon. But as author William Hamilton points out in The Island magazine, the fact remains that countless people have seen something on the waters surrounding our Island, and that that something remains unexplained (10).

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In Island folklore, the sluagh most commonly takes on the appearance of a small bird.

The Wild Hunt of the Black BirdsIndelible upon the history of our Island is the belief in omens and their supernatural meanings. Many of these beliefs come from the oral traditions of the early Scottish settlers, who told these tales in the original Gaelic. The Scots believed much could be divined from the interpretation of signs, and it was widespread knowledge in Eastern Kings that “dishes rattling in the cupboard was the sign that somebody was going to die; and a picture falling off the wall was another; and if you opened the stove and the sparks flew at you… that was supposed to mean you'd hear of a death (3).

But the most ominous of signs often had a connection to birds. Some held the belief that if a bird flew in your house, that was somebody was bringing bad news to you soon (3), while others understood that a bird in the house was a sign of a loved one’s impending doom (8). And while these tales are alarming enough, a large flock of birds could be a sign of something much more sinister.

Stories are told, to this day, of an otherworldy flock of birds which was capable of transporting people rapidly, and over considerable distances (3). It was known in Gaelic as the sluagh (pronounced SLOO-ah), which literally meant “a large host or swarm”, although a more contemporary understanding might be "army". Each bird was said to represent a spirit of the restless dead, or of a sinner.

If you were caught out at night, or even in your home with the doors or windows open in the dark, the sluagh could pick you up and carry you off. In some cases, the sluagh would come to take you away to the afterlife, and you would never be seen again. Those who did survive the sluagh found themselves far from their homes, often in the wilderness, with no memory of the preceding hours, or how they came to be there (8).

A depiction of "The Wild Hunt", by Peter Nicolai Arbo, 1872.

Theresa Wilson of Goose River recalls the story of her grandfather’s encounter with the sluagh (3). Her grandfather was known to be a hard worker, and he slept soundly at night as a result of this. One night, after a particularly hard day in the fields, he came home and fell asleep, and when he next awoke it was morning time, and he found himself lying on the train tracks, several miles away. It was only by the vibrations of the train coming down the tracks that he even woke up at all. He was convinced that it had been the sluagh which had carried him there.

​The Big Swamp in Bayfield was also said to be a haunt of the sluagh, and many people have had run-ins with this powerful force near the swamp. Ronnie Gillis was once walking through the swamp at night, when suddenly he found himself miles away with no memory of how he got there (8). In another instance, John Joe MacPhee was walking from Rock Barra to Bayfield, past the swamp, when a cold wind hit him. After that he had no memory of what happened, and when he came to his senses he found himself lost in the depths of the swamp, and it took him hours to find his way out (8).

Perhaps inexplicably, the most effective defense against the sluagh was to keep the leg of your pants rolled up at all times, as that was said to be the best way to ensure that the sluagh wouldn’t take you (3). This claim is often attested to in tales of the sluagh, and is repeated in various sources (8). Few other methods of sluagh prevention are known, however it was thought that the sluagh was thought to arrive only from the west, and one other method of preventing the sluagh included keeping west facing windows closed, especially at night.

And while these stories may strike the modern reader as bizarre, there are still those who lend credence to their veracity. The Island Narrative Program of UPEI records that some people who still, even today, wind their windows up when passing the Big Swamp in Bayfield (8), and it is still a common practice among many Islander when driving to “cross your crows”, which means to make the sign of a small cross over crows who cross your path, in order to ward off bad luck.

Ghost Candles and Will-O-The-Wisps

An ever-present part of the Island life back in those days were visions of the dead; visitations by spirits or ghosts which heralded imminent death or could foresee the future. These visions were as mysterious as they were frequent, and could appear to anyone at anytime, however night was when they were most often manifest.

One form in which the otherworldly made themselves known was through the appearance of lights, which were known at the time by their Gaelic name, the "dreag" (3). In modern terms, these visions were known as ghost candles. These lights could be fleeting or playful, and were always a clear indicator that something supernatural was afoot.

As Shaw writes, one example of these lights occurred when a father was walking home, late at night, after finishing his work on a neighbour’s farm. The road was dark and black, the sky clouded overhead, and he was surprised by the sudden apparition of a small, floating ball of light which hovered over his shoulder. The light stayed with him, following home, and the father knew with increasing dread that something was to fear beyond his own farm gate. To his dismay, when he arrived home, he discovered that his young son had died that very evening, and the light of the dreag, thought to be the spirit of the little boy, had guided him home.

Another example of this was witnessed by an entire family. Early one winter morning, the family, consisting of a mother, a father, and their son, were gathered around the table in the kitchen eating breakfast. This was long before sunrise, and everyone at the table was startled when a sudden flash of bright light shone in the kitchen window, illuminating all three of them, before fading away as suddenly as it had come. Their son had been ill for some time prior, and the father took this to be a sign of the boy's impending doom.

​The son recuperated nicely, despite the omen, and the father was relieved, until he himself took ill only a week later and suddenly died. The family was grief-stricken, and not long after the burial the mother too contracted pneumonia and passed away, leaving an orphan son, the lone survivor of the vision of the bright light (3). Such a spectacle was so compelling, so convincing, that even the Reverend attested that it could only have been a forerunner, some otherworldly act of intervention (3).

Another instance of a ghost candle occurred in the Glen, and was witnessed by Roderick MacPhee, father of Nellie Roddie, who claimed to have seen a "ball of fire". According to the story, “one night, Roderick was at a card game in the Glen when a large fight broke out. Getting scared, Roderick left for home. As he was leaving, he saw a large ball of fire that started to follow him. He ran faster and the ball followed him quicker. The faster he ran, the faster the ball came after him. As he rushed in the house door, he slammed the door shut and the flaming ball disappeared. He believed the ball to be the devil, and also believed the devil to be in the cards.” The connection between the devil and playing cards was a common one, and in those days card games were believed to be a sin (9).

Forerunners were said to appear as a sign to the living, foretelling impending doom.

Forerunners

​Ghost candles weren't the only way in which spirits made themselves known, however. Many supernatural sightings more often took the form of visions, ghostly apparitions, or visitations, which were known as forerunners, as they were said to "foretell" something about the future. And while many people reported experiences with forerunners, some people were more attuned to these visions than others. One such person, Donald MacDonald, of Bear River, was known for his glimpses of these apparitions and omens, and would often make dire predictions based upon what he saw. He was a man plagued by the supernatural, and would often report that he could not even sleep in his own home, as the dishes in the cupboard would rattle and the stove-lids would shake in their places (4).

In one often told example of Donald’s visions, when he was leaving the home of his neighbours, Joe and Julia Gaudet, he stopped abruptly on the deck, and skirted around the perimeter of the verandah, avoiding some unseen obstacle in his way. When questioned about it, he said that he had just walked around a coffin. This message struck fear into the hearts of those around, and it was only days later when Joe’s brother Aeneas was tragically killed in a work accident. The wake was held in Joe’s home, and when the pallbearers, Donald included, were carrying the casket into the house, they were forced to set it down in order to make adjustments to the door to allow it to fit. They set it on the deck, in the very place where Donald had seen it lying days earlier (4).

Funeral procession for a child, early 1900s. Location unknown.

In another instance, Donald stopped what he was doing as he stood out in the yard, and those around him asked what was going on. Sombrely he reported that he had just witnessed a funeral procession go by, and that death was to be expected. Sure enough, not even a week later, a neighbour, young Sarah Gallant took ill and died, and her funeral procession passed by the house, just as Donald had predicted it would (4).

Another example of a forerunner, this time from near Naufrage, foretold the death of a young child in a family of MacDonalds. For several nights in a row Mrs. MacDonald had been having difficulty sleeping. Her youngest child, only an infant, wasn’t well, but she admitted that this wasn’t what was keeping her up. The problem, she revealed to her husband after several sleepless nights, was the noise she continued to hear outside the bedroom window, late at night. It was a hollow, wooden, thumping noise, but when she would peer out the window she could see nothing. Her husband assured her that it was of no consequence, but still it weighed heavily upon her mind.

Mrs. MacDonald soon found something else to fret over, for only a day or two later her infant baby died. Sadness and grief overwhelmed the home as funeral preparations commenced. Up in the bedroom, the weeping mother prepared her baby’s body, while outside her husband constructed a child-sized coffin, the saddest of things. He had only just finished the coffin when he picked it up to carry it inside, but he stumbled as he went, falling forward and knocking the coffin against the side of the house. The clatter that ensued --the hollow, wooden, thump -- was enough to make Mrs. MacDonald’s blood run cold, for it was the exact sound which had been keeping her awake each and every night. The child was quickly buried, and the sound was never heard again.

The most well-known image of the famous Cottingley Fairies.

Fairies

Fairies have played a role in Island folklore since the first settlers arrived here, something that perhaps bears testament to early settlers' roots in Scotland and Ireland. Fairy Hill, located in Gowan Brae, was once thought to be home to the largest tree on the Island, and fairies are still said to be found in the spring on the Hermanville road near Naufrage. But unlike the typical image of fairies found in popular stories, the fairies on the Island have rarely been known to be kind, and the stories most often shared are dire tales of warning, of punishment or mischief at the hands of these tiny creatures.

The Glen was infamous for fairies, and this is noted even by the Province of Prince Edward Island in their archive of scenic wood roads (3).Wooded areas were known to be haunts of these fairy-folk, and their voices and laughter would echo through the forest, often being mistaken for that of a child. Curious children who lived nearby were taught to pay no notice to these voices. Those children who didn't heed their parents' warnings and followed the voices were led deeper and deeper into the woods until they were hopelessly lost; such was the fairies' aim.

One well known tale of the trouble caused by fairies that of a man who lived in the Glen, who claimed that fairies had gotten into his barn. They began to pull tricks and play mischief on him, to the point that he had no other means of eradicating them, and so in desperation he set fire to the barn. It burned away in a blaze of flames and smoke, but to his dismay the fairies then appeared inside his house. He again tried what methods he could, but could find no way to rid himself of their presence, and sadly burned his own house in order to rid himself of his tormentors (1). He even burned his outbuildings and tool sheds, leaving nothing standing in his attempt to get rid of them. In the end his only recourse was to abandon his property altogether, whereafter he was taken in by Harry Dixon, in the Baltic (1).

The fairies were known as tricksters, it was said that the best way to rid one’s self of them was to outdo them at their own game, and to beat them in a trick. One such method of escaping the fairies that has been attested to up East, was to run across the rows of a potato field. The fairies, being so small, couldn’t climb over the furrows, and would instead have to run up and down the rows, zig-zagging back and forth, leaving enough time for anyone to escape (1).

Not all encounters with fairies were wicked, and on a kinder note there is the story of Togany the Fairy. As the story goes, there was an early settler named Peter MacPhee who had staked his claim in Rock Barra. His property had a beautiful little spring on it, with no need for a well, and Peter would draw his water from this spring. One day, when he was down at the spring, he fell asleep, and later awoke to the sound of piping. To his surprise, a fairy had climbed out of the spring and was piping music for Peter. The fairy told the man that his name was Togany (Toganaidh in the original Gaelic), and agreed to teach the music to Peter, who could also play the pipes (1,2). Peter rushed home, returned with his pipes, and the little creature taught him what came to be known as Togany’s Reel.

​This was many years ago, and unfortunately the spring which once was the home of the fairies has now dried up, however they say that the remnants of Peter’s cabin, little more than post holes, can still be found (1).

A late 19th century depiction of an early Irish wake, similar to the one's which would have been held on the Island at that time.

Kelly’s Fairy

Another instance of a Prince Edward Island “fairy” comes to us a from an article in The Island magazine, which has reprinted an earlier article from the Examiner of 7 January 1893. This story surrounds the case of “Kelly’s Fairy”, as the creature was known at the time. It takes place in a pioneer village in King’s County, where a young couple, by the surname Kelly, gave birth to a son who was perfect in every way. The family was normal and happy, the child was healthy and rosy, and the Kelly parents spared no kindness or affection towards the boy, who was their greatest treasure in life.

But all that changed one October morning when, against the better intentions of his wife, Mr. Kelly persuaded her to leave the child alone in the crib while they worked out in the field to bring in the harvest of potatoes. When they returned to the house around noon, the parents were surprised to find that their child had taken on a visage of distemper, that he looked sour and puckered, as if he had become calamitously ill. Mrs. Kelly did all that she could to comfort the child, but it was to no avail; this callous and crooked disposition settled permanently over the child, despite all her efforts to the contrary. It was as if he was a completely changed creature.

Word soon spread of the misfortune of the Kelly family, and rumor began to spread that the child which Mrs. Kelly held in her arms was not in fact her own, but that it was a changeling; that her true child had been taken away by the fairies and this creature had been left in its place. Mrs. Kelly wished not to believe it, but even she was unable to entirely dispel the doubt that the rumours had sown. And so, the child soon came to be known as Kelly’s Fairy.

As if this weren’t tragic enough, Mrs. Kelly’s husband, the child’s father, soon took ill and before long he had been swept into an early grave, leaving behind a widow and a disturbed child. As the child grew, it was all that Mrs. Kelly could do to provide for her child and keep a home, and it was only through the goodwill and pity of her neighbours that they were kept from starvation. The charity of visitations, however, was more infrequently offered, for as Kelly’s Fairy grew he became violent, explosive, and angry. He was behave as if possessed, with emotions ranging from fury to feckless, leaving his mother at her wit’s end.

This continued until the boy was nineteen years of age, when he suddenly sickened and died. Word spread rapidly that Kelly’s Fairy was no more, and whether out of concern or curiosity, the entire countryside turned out to the wake, in hopes of seeing the fairy boy. The body was laid out in the little home, as was the custom at the time, and neighbours flooded in from near and far.

The Fairy’s corpse proved to be a fearful sight indeed, for just as he had lived a harsh and aberrant existence, so too had he died. His body had been withered and angular, and try as the widow may, she could not straighten her son’s body entirely, even in death. As a result, he lay in wake with hunched shoulders and bent knees, a frightening visage for all those who sought him out.

One such neighbour, a large Irishman known only in the records as ‘Terence’, was called by curiosity to see the body, but as he made his way to the wake he took the time to stop in at the tavern and have more than enough to drink, ensuring that he would be plenty warm and watered by the time he arrived. As he walked the rest of the way to the wake the crisp autumn air permitted him to keep his wits about him, but once he entered the small little home of the widow, sweltering with the heat of dozens of bodies, the liquor struck him fast and firm, and it was all he could do to keep on his feet.

Being a good Catholic he removed his hat and made his way to the body of the boy, but the liquor proved to be too much for him. He was jostled, only slightly, from behind, and before he knew it he had taken a spill and had tumbled onto the corpse. The force of the Irishman falling onto the body did what no one else had been able to, and forcefully set the fairy’s legs straight. This had the unfortunate result, however, of sending a shock through the seized sinews of the legs and torso, resulting in the boy’s upper body spring upward in response, to the horror of those gathered. And, as if this weren’t enough, those wicked gases which are known to accrue in the body of the recently deceased, having been trapped by the boy’s previously angular composure, were suddenly released in a horribly putrid wave of exhaust, escaping in such a way so as to sound like a final damning curse from the seemingly reanimated corpse.

Those who were gathered howled in fright and fled from the little home, but there were none so terrified as Terence, who flung the corpse away, screaming “Mother of God, I’ve brought Kelly’s fairy alive again!” (5). Events such as this were more than any tiny settlement could handle, and so a coffin was hastily constructed, and the boy was buried that very night, in the dark, so that by the time the sun rose the next morning, there was nothing but a small burial mound to remind the world of Kelly’s fairy.

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To learn more about the history, culture, and folklore of Prince Edward Island, join us on our Harbour History Tour, experience our Red Red Tour, or join us for one of our story-telling events.

Before the Scott act was put into place around the turn of the century, many small shops and taverns in the area sold liquor in abundance. Pictured here is Alexander Robertson's General Store, Red Point, circa 1904.

EARLY DAYS OF LIQUOR​ In years gone by you never had to venture far to find a drink, and in that respect little has changed over the years. Whether it be at a kitchen party or wedding reception, at the wharf, or even at a wake, Islanders are known to take a sip of the good stuff when they feel the time is right. Such is tradition, and it is a tradition that dates back to the earliest foundations of the Island community.

At the time of Souris’ founding, not unlike any other community, it was the farmers and merchants who kept the villages alive. And in those days, to those who had a license to sell liquor, it was just another profitable commodity in their store, tavern or hotel (1). But that’s not to say that liquor wasn’t a problem; in those days of flowing taps and loose regulation, it was often the smell of liquor which hung like a pall over a town.

Even by the 1860s there was vocal opponents to the open sale and consumption of alcohol, but those who advocated temperance were only small voices awash in a sea of booze. At this time there were nearly a dozen shops and taverns selling alcohol between Souris East and Souris West, and as such, it was said that there is “little wonder Souris has such an unsavory reputation in many parts” (1).

Yet the residents of Souris weren’t solely to blame for the alcoholic epidemic which gripped the area. As a seaside town with a sturdy harbor, Souris played host on a nightly basis to countless sailors and seamen who would come ashore in search of drink and disorder, and those businesses which depended on them were all too willing to oblige. It is said that liquor flowed six days a week out the front door the town’s taverns, and that even on Sunday the back doors were never locked.

Working fishermen in Souris Harbour, ca 1920s.

SAILORS TAKE THE SHORE

As Townshend writes, “the impact on Souris of the American fishing fleet was probably to make fighters of many of the youngsters who grew up between 1865 and 1885… liquor was cheap and easy to obtain and many of those who drank wanted to demonstrate their fighting abilities. It was a period when the merchants shuttered their windows every night and unbarred them every morning” (1).

One particularly unruly incident occurred in August of 1887, when a major storm forced all of the American fleet inland into the harbor. A staggering 800 foreign fishermen came ashore that evening, easily outnumbering the residents of the town. The Chief Officer on duty, who had been sent to keep the peace, was drugged by the fishermen, and in his absence the men were free to behave as wildly as they pleased. They even cut the buttons and badge off of the poor Officer’s uniform, and later, when the incident was reported, he stood trial for neglect of duty (1).

Another occasion, now known as “Axe Handle Night”, illustrates the volatility of the situation in Souris when liquor and sailors mixed. The incident began near the old Carleton store around 8:00PM (1). Joseph Doyle, a Souris merchant and banker, was spotted being attacked by drunken sailors. James Dunphy, a Souris saddler, ran to his rescue, and soon they were both badly injured. The alarm was raised, and a throng of locals took to the streets against these rioting fishermen. Both sides armed themselves with sticks and axe handles (1). Further clashes ensued, but the Souris locals were successful in driving these unruly men back towards the wharf. Several rioters were captured and locked up for the night (1).

Things did not end so well for everyone, however. One sailor, a Joseph Strople, was fleeing from those Souris men, and in his drunkenness did not make the turn onto Breakwater Street. Instead he careened over the bank, near the present day Sailor’s Memorial, and tumbled to his death upon the rocks (1).

The rioters who were arrested that night were each fined $50, which was considered to be a large and excessive fine at that time. Other charges included “fighting on the shore on the Sabbath”, for which those found guilty were charged $2, and being “drunk and disorderly”.

The Scott Act so vehement support and opposition from the public and from religious institutions.

THE SCOTT ACT​Such incidents were no doubt on the minds of legislators in 1878, when Senator R.W. Scott brought in the Canadian Temperance Act, the first measure of the Federal Government to control the sale and use of alcohol. It passed the same year and became known as the Scott Act. It provided total prohibition on liquor sales in any area of the country, except for medicinal use (1).

In June 1901, Prince Edward Island became the first province to adopt the Scott Act. Interestingly, the Island was subsequently the last to repeal the act in 1948. This meant that for 47 years alcohol was prohibited in the province, and ironically it was arguably during those 47 years that alcohol most freely flowed.

The effectiveness of the Scott Act was deemed questionable from the very beginning, and according to the Examiner, “The Scott Act is in operation or rather was adopted...but is as dead as Julius Caesar and ten illicit liquor shops are in full blast from which foreign fishermen get full supplies and thereafter make nights hideous with their shocking profanity, fighting and general rowdyism” (1).

J.J. Hughes, Mayor of Souris and Liberal Member of the House of Commons, reported “that every possible device was being used to circumvent the provincial laws. Liquor was flooding into his province hidden in flour barrels, boot boxes” and every other conceivable manner of concealment (1).​It was from these methods that rum-running, the practice of smuggling contraband alcohol to shore, developed into the booming and raucous industry it became in the early half of the twentieth century. There are few alive today who fully remember the impact that rum-running had on the Island, but it is still well known that the North shore of King’s County, with the help of ships like the Nellie J. Banks, was one the focal points of the whole ordeal.

The famous Nellie J. Banks, under the direction of Captain Dicks, was the leading figure in rum-running off of the north side of Eastern Prince Edward Island.

RUM RUNNING​ Prince Edward Island’s enactment of the Scott Act was reason enough for Islanders to seek out other means of procuring and imbibing the dangerous drink, but they soon set their sights on a bigger target. In 1920, when the United States enacted prohibition, rum-runners found themselves poised to reap a fortune by supplying smuggled rum to the parched hordes of Americans who now found themselves dry.Fate, it seemed, had dealt island smugglers a perfect hand.

The little-known island of St. Pierre and Miquelon, which belongs to France, was one of the only jurisdictions in North America which was not subject to prohibition. And as luck would have it for Island rum-runners, ships departing from St. Pierre and Miquelon were within close proximity to Prince Edward Island’s waters. Once this connection was made, the stage was set, and Islander’s began smuggling rum at an unprecedented rate.

The set-up was clever in its simplicity; a twelve-mile limit had been established by the provincial government, and anyone found to be in possession of alcohol within this limit was under the jurisdiction of Prince Edward Island. The waters outside of twelve miles though were anyone’s game. Ships from St. Pierre and Miquelon would be scheduled to arrive at a certain time and place, just outside the limit and always under the cover of night. Local men, typically on fishing boats, would then sail out to meet the ships, buy the rum, and head back to shore.

Great care had to be paid though, lest they be apprehended by the authorities, and in response to this ever present threat all manners of cunning schemes were devised to evade authorities. One such scheme was to arrange to meet the French ships based upon the cycles of the tide, so that when the rum was loaded onto the Islander’s boats they would reach the shore at low tide.

​Then, instead of moving the rum as the police may have expected, it would be buried in the exposed sand bar and hidden away, safe from accidental discovery or interference. That way officers found only empty vehicles at their checkpoints. Several nights later, when there was no tip-off of any rum arrivals, the rum-runners would return to the beach and unearth their buried treasure.

FATE’S PERFECT HAND​But the most clever method of all was one recalled by an old timer who was only a young boy at the time, who was out on one of his first runs when they were intercepted by a police boat. All of the bottles of rum had been hidden in burlap sacks of sugar, but the boy was convinced that the police would still find them.​Panicked, he threw all the sacks overboard, where they sunk to the bottom. This ensured that the police found no trace of rum, but the rum-runner was so angry that he threatened to throw the boy overboard. He was spared only by a disturbance which the Captain noticed upon the water. The boy looked, and to his disbelief he saw that the sacks which had sunk to the bottom were now floating alongside the boat. All of the sugar had slowly dissolved, and the rum and floated back to the top.

​The boy had saved the day, and a new method had been discovered to evade the watchful eyes of the police, something which continued to the very end of prohibition on Prince Edward Island in 1948.

Those men who could not ply the trade of rum running found moonshine to be a more viable option.

MARVELOUS MOONSHINE

But for those who would not, or could not, take to the sea in pursuit of a drink, moonshining proved to be a viable option. Moonshine could be made at affordably at home, and could be done without attracting much attention from neighbours or law enforcement. In actuality, the greatest impediment to a budding moonshiner was not police interference, but the disapproval of an on-looking wife or mother, aghast at the use of the kitchen utensils, particularly on a Sunday.

And while methods varied somewhat, the end result was always the same. Corn, potatoes, apples, even beets could be used as a base, and when distilled would yield a product which would tolerably pass as moonshine. Molasses and brown sugar were always key ingredients as well. As Knight writes, “the culture of moonshine is strong in rural Canadian areas where people are used to making everything from scratch, cherish a healthy disrespect for politics and the law, and have plenty of acreage to work in total obscurity” (2). Such was the case in eastern Prince Edward Island as the Scott Act held in place.

Stills could be set up in kitchens, basements, or backwoods, and with the right care and attention the shine would be flowing in no time. One had to be protective of their stills though. To have a known still opened one’s self up to theft from those desperate for a drink, be they neighbours, teens, or vagabonds.

​The problem was not easily solved though, as it was not merely as simply as bringing the shine into the house. To do so would be to risk to discovery by the police if they did search your home. Instead, inventive methods were devised in order to keep to the shine hidden in plain sight. One such method involved hinging certain steps on the stairs to create a hiding place. Another common method was an old fashioned burial; this was one of the safest methods, although you remained open to theft, or loss due to forgetfulness.​It is said that one infamous moonshiner from the northside buried every ounce of shine that he made down by the stream, in order to hide it from his wife. When word got out about these burials, it didn’t long for people to begin searching for the shine late at night. Sometimes they got lucky, and this shiner was forced to hide them better and bury them deeper the next time around. To this day, down near the spring, there remain divots in the ground where the shine was once concealed, and new holes appear from time to time, but whether they are dug out of desperation or curiosity remains unknown.

Myriad View Distillery (Tripadvisor Photo).

PRESENT DAY PRACTICE

Unlike rum-running, which saw its glory days come and go, moonshine is ever popular and readily available on the Island to this day, and eastern PEI remains a leader in the production and consumption of the drink. And while the homemade, under the table stuff remains a perpetual staple in Island homes, the Myriad View Distillery in Rollo Bay offers PEI’s only legally produced moonshine, which is sold across the Island and marketed as Strait Shine. It is potent stuff, and it has served as a wonderful way to introduce those ‘from away’ to a part of an Island tradition which they may never have had the opportunity to experience otherwise.

Proud proof of another successful day at the beach making Red Rock Dirt Shirts.

Prince Edward Island is a place like no other, and there is no better way to discover this place than to experience things hands on. The most unforgettable summer memories don’t just happen, they’re made, and at Red Rock Adventure Company, we want to help you make a memory to last a lifetime with one of our guided tours.

Situated at the beautiful Naufrage Harbour, we are fortunate to be able to show travelers from across the country and around the world how to make their very own dirt shirts. It is a unique slice of Island life which has been a proud (if not messy) tradition for generations.

Everything is pretty clean starting out, but it doesn't stay that way for long.

It seems so simple, right? Grab a shirt, get it dirty, and let Nature do the rest. Not quite! The formula for making a dirt shirt is a little more complicated than that. It all starts at our shop, where we supply you with the shirt, a bike, and everything else you need to get rolling. All that you need to bring is a good pair of shoes and a sense of adventure!

Departing from our shop you’ll be led by our friendly tour guide as you leave the harbor and head for the beach. It’s less than a kilometer down to Cow River beach, and as you cycle down the dirt road toward the shore you will be greeted by a splendid view of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Shorebirds are a common sight here, as are eagles, and as the river spills over the sand towards the sea you’ll be sure to catch a glimpse of the wildlife from atop the cliff.

It never takes long for the kids to dive in and get dirty.

From there we head down to the beach, destined for the rocky sandstone outcroppings which provide the location for our secret ingredient: red Island clay. And this is the key to the whole experience; although all Island “dirt” is red, it takes something special to make a lasting dirt shirt. The soil from a farmer’s field, or even that from a dirt road just won’t cut it. It will make a mess, but it won’t do much more than that.

On the contrary, the slippery clay which seeps out of the sand stone cliffs in just a few locations is the real deal. It is concentrated, potent, and hard to find. Don’t be fooled by other products posing; our shirts are the only ones hand made with real dirt in the great outdoors.

Big smiles all around as the mud starts flying.

After a short hike to the cliffs, it’s time to get messy. Your guide will show which clay will work best, and how to find it. He’ll point out the best hidden reserves, and how to avoid just plain old dirt. Once you’ve found a spot, your artistic side takes over. The premise is simple: anything that is clean needs to get dirty. Our guides have learned a few tips and tricks which they’re always happy to share, but if you’re making a mess, chances are you’re on the right track.

The front and back of your shirt needs to be well covered in equal measure for best results, and it is crucial not to miss any spots. Patterns, designs, and tie-dye style can all be applied too. After both sides are covered, the shirt needs to be rinsed to prepare for the second stage. This is where things get really fun. You need to wade into the warm water of the Atlantic and rinse the shirt until the water dripping from it runs clean.​This will leave you with a pretty good shirt, but it isn’t finished yet. It’s time for a second round of clay, and this is the finishing round. The clay needs to be ground in well, and it should spread smooth, like peanut butter. Once you think it’s ready, spread it out nice and neat on the rocks to let it bake in the sun. It doesn’t take long for the color to set in. When your guide gives you the OK, it’s time to take it back into the water and wring it clean once more.

Another great finished product, just after being rinsed once more in the ocean water.

When everyone is finished we head back up to the bikes, dirty, wet, and fulfilled. From there it is a scenic bike ride back to the harbor, not more than a mile, where you ride downhill into Naufrage, cycling past the beach and over the harbor bridge, catching a glimpse of Island scenery at its finest.

All of this is messy business, and you can’t be afraid to get dirty. It’s fun for the whole family, whether you’re young, or young at heart, and is a great experience for groups of any size. Best of all, it leaves you with a lasting souvenir of your trip to Prince Edward Island, something unique which can’t simply be bought at a store.

To see a video tutorial of this process, click here.For learn more about the Red Rock Adventure Company, or to book a tour, click here.You can click here to find us on Tripadvisor and read our reviews.

A unique sight, even by today's standards: five generations of Island fishermen.

It has been said of the lobster industry that “nothing — not the fall of governments or birth of kings or the discovery of new galaxies — is of so much importance and interest as the question of whether the boats will be able to go out today, and whether the lobsters will be crawling”[1]. This sentiment, it seems, remains as true today as ever before.

And while some things, such as the ever pertinent questions of the winds and the waves remaining static, there is much in the lobster industry that has changed over the past 300 years, from the fisheries’ humble beginnings to its indelible place in our Island culture today.

Early DaysIn the earliest days of the industry, lobster were eaten out of necessity, not out of desire, as they were readily available in numbers of great abundance. They would be gathered, as needed, along the shore, or found in tidal pools when the tide receded. Lobsters were much more plentiful then, and in dire times they provided the sustenance needed for a family to survive.

One of the Island's earliest lobster boats. These were all made by hand.

The availability of lobster was attested to in one of the earliest known references to Atlantic lobster, noted by a Captain Leigh in 1597 as he sailed near Cape Breton, where in a letter he wrote that “there are the greatest multitude of lobsters that ever we heard of; for we caught at one haul with a little draw net [more than] 140.[2]"

This could scarcely be considered industry, though, and it wasn’t until around 1850 that lobster traps as we would know them today began to appear[3]. It was in these days that men finally ventured out to the sea in order to reign in the humble lobster, taking to the water in small, handcrafted boats which the men would use well within the sight of shore. This was backbreaking work, navigating the waters under only the power of a set of oars or a small sail, but it was sufficient to bring home enough to get by on.

A "Poor Man's Food"The prevalence of lobster in the hands of the working poor, coupled with its admittedly alien features, soon gave rise to the notion, on the Island and abroad, that lobster was something of a “poor man’s food”[4]. This is a notion that is well attested to, even to this day, in Island parlance, as well as in written reference. It even became common practice to serve tenants and employees lobster so frequently that rules were put into place specifying that they could not be forced to eat lobster more than three times per week[5].

Such rules were not to be implemented when it came to the preparation of lunches by school aged children, and meager mothers were often forced to prepare lobster sandwiches for the school day. There were those students whose pride was stronger than their hunger, who would scrape the lobster off on the way to school, and instead pretend that they had a butter sandwich instead. A butter sandwich is no regal meal either, and so for it to be considered loftier than one of lobster is quite telling.

The Basin Head lobster factory, as it appeared in the 1940s. Known as "The Cannery", this factory is still in place today, and hosts an ice-cream shop and fisheries museum.

The Cannery Is KingIt wasn’t long after this time that a proper market was established when lobster canning factories began to spring up around the Island. The invention of better canning and sealing technologies meant that now lobster could be stored and preserved for a much longer amount of time, allowing the seafood product to be shipped greater distances without spoiling. This opened up a lucrative market, both in the United States and Europe, where millions of people were willing to splurge on what was increasingly coming to be considered a delicacy, considering its exotic sea-side origin. Factories were built at Cow River, Basin Head, Fortune, Sheep Pond, and North Lake, just to name a few.

Steadily OnwardWith the dawn of a new century came improved methods of boat construction, which permitted the fishermen to venture ever further onto the water, resulting in increased catches and yields. It was this time, too, that saw the establishment of a fisherman’s territory, something which has been honored, not by any outside legality, but by custom and tradition alone, to this very day. The fishing limits, zones, and boundaries which were established in those early days of lobster fishing were informal, and were done so only out of best practice.

However, as the water became further populated by more and more men entering the industry, those previously established locales remained the right of the earlier owner to fish. When a fishing license was handed down from one generation to another, so too were the rights to fish in a given area, a tradition which has continued.

Fixing nets in Souris, ca. 1960. At this time the boats are transitioning from handmade to manufactured.

And so, to return to the present day, much remains the same. On the daily fisherman set out at dawn or early to haul in their traps, the design of which has changed very little since their introduction. Boats are now made commercially, however traps are still built by hand during the long winter months, as fishermen await “setting day”, which is typically around the end of April. Lobster are still hauled ashore at the harbor, where fish buyers wait to purchase the catch and ship it off to market. And behind it all remains the ever-present connection to the sea, the Island, to the way of life which has kept food on the table for generations of Island families. It is an industry steeped in history and tradition; an industry that will surely continue to be an integral part of the Island way of life for generations to come.

To learn more about lobster fishing and the lobster industry, to experience the catch of the day being hauled into the harbor, and to discover life at one of the Island’s liveliest harbours, check out Red Rock’s daily Harbour History tour.

This article is part of an on-going series exploring the history of Eastern Prince Edward Island. The locations and people detailed below can be explored more fully as a part of the cultural tours which we offer. See our main page for more information.

​This article was inspired and assisted through the photos and stories found in Bonnie Townshend's book, "The Road to Fortune"; a book which contains a plethora of stories, photos, and memories. We thank Bonnie for her hard work and research.

A picnicking crowd in Fortune, circa 1928.

Bay Fortune, it seems, has had its fair share of fame and celebrity in its past, stretching all the way back to the infamous case of Pearce and Abel. But Fortune’s connections to such memorable moments in history are not merely a thing of the past, for they live on today in the remaining artifacts and stories which the colorful characters who once called the area home have left behind.

Previous editions of this blog have touched upon the curious case of Captain Kidd’s treasure, an article which highlighted its connection to another part of the area’s history, namely the Actor’s Colony at Bay Fortune.

It may still be remarked upon as a puzzling development as to how this Colony came to be, for despite the beauty of the Bay it was a long and distant journey for these American “colonists” to find their way here. But as Peake writes, Fortune “was a perfect retreat for these actors, actresses and writers of the American stage who required the renewal of peace and tranquility” (2).

Better yet, to quote a contemporary of this colony, a Mr. Charles Flockton, of whom you will soon become familiar, “Abells Cape, situated at the mouth of Fortune River, was at that time a charming old world spot… from the high cliff of red sandstone on which it stood, a narrow path wound its way down to a somewhat delapidated wharf in the immediate foreground. There the local fishermen moored their boats, stowed gear and dried their nets" (1).

​"Whether this more or less romantic background was responsible for the attraction the Cape possessed for thespians, one can only conjecture. The fact remains however, that many veterans of the stage were to be encountered there, or in its immediate vicinity, summer after summer" (1).​Such is no doubt true, and in fact it is this very notion of retreat and solace which continues to draw visitors to the area today.

Establishing a Colony

In order to uncover the specific genesis of this Colony, we would be remiss to overlook Charles Coughlan, for it is the case that this story too begins (and seemingly ends) with him.

​Charles Coughlan was initially brought to the Island after seeing a leaflet advertising it in New York. He was an avid sports fisher, and this led him eventually to Fortune, where he was immediately smitten by the place. There was, at this time, already extant a small cottage on Abel’s Cape, as is alluded to above, one which he rented immediately and spent the summer in with his wife and daughter. By the conclusion of the summer he was so enamored with Bay Fortune that he purchased the “Cape House” outright (1).​The next summer, with tales of the wonderful Island alight in his mind, Coughlan returned to Fortune, having extended invitations to many of his theatrical friends, thus laying the groundwork for the future actor’s colony (3). Attracted by Coughlan’s own residence, C.P. Flockton soon followed him to Fortune and purchased three different properties in the Fortune area.

A turn of the century sketch of the "Cape House", as it appeared in the Prince Edward Island Magazine.

Charles P. Flockton and the Flockton Comedy Company

For while Coughlan was the progenitor of the Actor’s Colony, it was surely Flockton who brought it to life, making it the prosperous summer settlement that it became, as without him it would never have been.

Flockton, or “Flockie” as he was known by his friends at the time, was an amiable and sociable character, who had risen to prominence first in England, and then in New York City. It is said that Oscar Wilde wanted Flockton to be in his first play, “Vera the Nihilist”, and he was noted as being “among the best stock actors in America" (4).

Jessie Millward, in his 1923 book “Myself and Others”, remembered Flockie as “a dear old English gentleman who bore the most extraordinary likeness to [Henry] Irving. Indeed he always vowed that he had been compelled to leave England because Irving was so like him. A most lovable and quaint personality" (4).

Flockton in costume, performing "An Enemy of the King".

Under Flockton, the colony was truly something to be remarked upon. It became an intricate collection of cottages and houses rented by some of the most notable actors of the American east coast. Further pamphlets were printed to attract others, highlighting some of the features of the area. This included an illustration of what is now known as Fortune Back Beach, under the name of “Sea Gull Beach”, and advertised trout fishing, deep sea fishing, and sun bathing, as well as row boats for hire and a schooner, the “Stroller”, for rent, permitting his guests to go sailing (5).

Things were not always utopic under Flockton’s lead at the Colony however. For reasons not entirely known (although Carrington offers much conjecture in the way of booze), Flockie and the Actors often found themselves falling upon hard times. Not unlike the extant trope of the done-hard-by actor, proper planning for meals, sustenance, and amenities often went by the wayside, resulting in sometimes dire situations.

As Carrington recounts, “every sort of domestic essential was lacking, even food. Of that only a small quantity remained - tea, bread, butter, potatoes; of linen, crockery, cutlery, and kitchen utensils there were practically none.” This would have been tolerable for the small crowd which was staying at the Colony, but as luck would have it, the schooner “Stroller” arrived that night, bearing a multitude of weary and hungry guests, all desperate for sustenance. Given that Flockie’s credit had already been exhausted at Prowse Bros. store, they were uncertain where they should turn (1).

Then sprung to their minds the very notion of bountiful trout which had in the first place drawn Coughlan to the area. Warwick and Carrington, both armed with a fishing rod, set out to feed the masses, but upon their return it was found that their “few” fish were hardly enough to feed twelve hungry boarders. The next morning this uppity crowd, fresh from the haute-couture scene of New York and Boston life, found themselves scavenging the rocks of the harbour in search of breakfast. Their effort was rewarded with no fewer than 50 small lobsters, supplemented by several flounders which some of the more talented actors managed to spear. As Carrington recalled at the time, they were no better off than the Swiss Family Robinson (1).​

A portrait of Flockton. (NYU Archives).

What salvation these fishes were, they did not last long, and a desperate sense of starvation fell upon them all once more. It was then that the idea was hatched to retrieve seagull eggs from the aforementioned Sea Gull Beach, an idea which at the time was met with great gusto. Upon storming the beach the castaways discovered not merely seagull eggs, but the delicacy of plover eggs, such as were fit for royalty. Spirits were elevated on high as the eggs were carried home, spirits not to be broken until a proclamation of “rotten” rained tragedy upon those gathered, perhaps fittingly so (1).

Sustenance and survival came only at the eleventh hour when, through some miracle of fate or fortune, credit was re-established at the local store, permitting those gathered to eat, as Carrington recalls, “at almost regular intervals.”

It may be seen that the ultimate fate of the Flockton Comedy Company was foretold in the earlier proclamation of the plover eggs. Carrington explains that there were two successful performances in Souris, “after which began the decline and fall of the Flockton Comedy Company. Four one-night stands, all unprofitable, brought us to Charlottetown, the capital and our Waterloo. Our first night's performance in that delightful little city realized some 30 dollars. Of the entertainment itself let us be charitable and preserve a discreet silence. It was stigmatized by one native as "chronic."” This itself was painful, but not fatal. The following night yielded only nine paying patrons. By the last night, the played to an empty theatre (1).

That proved to be the final call for the Flockton Comedy Company, which disbanded a few nights later. Flockie was compelled to mortgage his property (yet again) in order to finance passage back to America for his compatriots. This he did, although it was later discovered that such paltry tickets did not include “such trivial items as meals” (1). Were it not for the kindness of those others onboard, it is certain that the destitute company would have starved.

As for Flockton, he had but little life left within him. He died only a few years later, in 1904, on a train on his way to California, at the age of 76. It had been his final wishes to have his remains cremated and his ashes spread upon Abel’s Cape, where he had enjoyed his halcyon days. This wish was carried out by the husband of Kate Claxton, and over his ashes was erected a sundial, bearing the phrase, “the timely shadow marks another hour in your absence” (1)(6). The sundial remains to this day, and on this subject Millward adds that “the natives [of Bay Fortune] always vowed that the dead actor's ghost "walked" upon these cliffs. “If it did,” he concludes, “ I'm sure it would never have harmed anybody” (6).

​

An early promotional photo of Elsa Warwick, circa 1905.

Meet the Warwicks

One of the most notable actors at the colony was Mr. Henry Warwick (often known as Harry), who came to Fortune with his wife Elsa in the late 1800s. Henry was an American actor, while Elsa was originally from Stockholm, Sweden. They were initially guests of C.P. Flockton, but before the turn of the century they had acquired property in the area and built a summer home. At this time Henry belonged to the Vitagraph Company of New York, and Elsa had been a Gibson Girl, and a dancer (5).

In the early 1900s Henry found himself acting in numerous silent and sound films, including “The Cheat”, “Red Hot Romance” and “The Witness for the Defense”. From 1917-1931 he acted in 15 different films. Warwick also tried his hand at script writing, drafting the story “Three Knaves and a Heathen Chinee”, which later went on to become a motion picture.

Henry quickly grew to love his home in Fortune, and just prior to the year 1900, he had opted to remain for the winter, as did a few of the other Actors. Carrington relates a story from that winter, one that is worth repeating here. It was the case that "one bitterly cold mid-winter night, with a blizzard "beginning to make," Henry happened to notice a complete absence of smoke from Cooper's (his neighbour's) chimney. In such a temperature this had very serious implications, leaving him no choice but to investigate (1).

A young Henry Warwick in his studio. (PEIPA)

​"Through the deep snow he reached Cooper's place, pushed the door open and entered the kitchen. Poor old Cooper lay slumped over an extinct stove, blue with cold and quite unconscious. A coil of rope hung at the back of the door, and taking this down Harry made a couple of loops, which he passed under Cooper's arms. Then, with considerable difficulty, he managed to get the old man on his shoulders and out into the night.

"All this took time. Meanwhile the blizzard had started in earnest, indeed had become formidable. Visibility was lowered to such an extent that only by following the fence could Harry find his way home. At last, almost exhausted, he reached his door. Laying Cooper on the day-bed he proceeded to render what aid he could. Fortunately plenty of whisky was available. Forcing a good stiff glass-full between Cooper's teeth, he covered him up with rugs, made up the fire and retired for the night.

"Next morning Cooper seemed little the worse for his brush with the Enemy. In fact he dismissed the whole affair as a mere incident - didn't realize, in all probability, what an exceedingly close shave he had had.

"But a few winters later brought the tragic finale: a farmer, happening to notice an unfamiliar mound of snow on one of his fields and thinking perhaps some "critter" might have perished and be lying there, kicked the snow away to find, to his amazement, Coopie. This time relief had come too late. Coopie's little moment of sleep, borrowed from death, had been repaid in full."

Despite such occurrences the Warwicks developed a strong attraction to the area, and during Henry’s time as a prominent actor, Elsa found herself more and more drawn to the Island. It proved to be an inevitable affliction, and it didn’t take long before she opted to live in Fortune year round. By 1900, Elsa had moved to Bay Fortune permanently. When Henry retired from acting he joined his wife in Fortune, and the two lived the remainder of their lives there (5).

Harris' summer home still stands today, and is now the Inn at Bay Fortune.

Elmer Harris and the Inn at Bay FortuneAs was noted in The Guardian in 1918, Elmer Harris was well known at that time as a “celebrated author and playwright from New York" (7). And while this undoubtedly earned him a certain degree of respect in the Fortune area, it is not always this that he is remembered for, but instead as the owner of “the largest and most beautiful summer home on the river, on which he has spent thousands, and continues to improve and add to from year to year” (3)(7).

Mr. Harris was no stranger to the Bay Fortune area around the turn of the century, having been persuaded to visit the area by Flockton. In little time Harris had soon fell in love with it, and in 1908 he bought a piece of property overlooking the Fortune river, and set about the construction of his summer residence, a residence that would one day become the Inn at Bay Fortune.

Just as it is today, Harris’ cottage was a magnificent accomplishment, one which elicited fanfare and admiration from all of those in connection with it. An anonymous letter to the editor of The Guardian, written in September of 1918, and signed only by the pseudonym “Angler”, relates to us that this spectacular home rests upon the most charming of sites, and is, in fact, one of the most extensive modern summer homes in Eastern Canada. To the contemporary reader’s favor, this letter-writer tells us that the home featured a water tower, baths, and hot and cold running water throughout. He also indicates to us that the home was by no means finished, and, as we have read above, received ongoing upgrades and renovations on a yearly basis (7).

Another curious tale developed in regards to Harris’ cottage, and in particular to the tower. It is said that during the war-time era of World War II, from aloft in the tower on the property one was able to spy military vessels and submarines out in the Northumberland Strait, and that on one occasion, through some method of signalling, communication was established between the tower and a vessel at sea (8).​Not long after construction of his cottage, Harris was married in 1913 to Willamino Hennessey. They had two children together, and once these children were grown both he and his wife moved to the Island permanently in the 1950s.

Movie poster for Harris' "Johnny Belinda"

It was also around this time that Harris wrote the script for “Johnny Belinda”, the play that would go on to be one of his most famous. Telling the story of Johnny Belinda, based upon the real life of Lydia Dingwell, of Dingwells Mills, the plot delves into the complexities of rape and innocence in early Canadian life. The title resonates to this day through the naming of Johnny Belinda Creek, on Route 2 in Dingwells Mills (5).

After the illness and death of his wife, the property changed hands several times, before being sold to Colleen Dewhurst, an actress who performed with John Wayne, and who was famously known for her role as Marilla Cuthbert in the movie versions of Anne of Green Gables. Dewhurst and her family summered at the Harris property for many years, enjoying the beauty of Bay Fortune. In 1989 the property was purchased by David Wilmer, who began the process of converting the property into an Inn.

It is through process that the Inn at Bay Fortune came into existence, and its current owners, Michael and Chastity Smith, have upheld its historic tradition and fortitude. They have developed the property into not only a world-renowned attraction, but into a living piece of local history, one which beautifully upholds the spirit and tradition of the Bay Fortune’s Actor’s Colony; a history which continues to be written to this day.

A headshot of Coughlan in his heyday.

Coughlan's Return

But to finish this tale, and to return in a way to its origins, we direct our attention once more to the Colony’s initiator, Mr. Coughlan. An actor and playwright, Coughlan was born in Paris to Irish parents, and studied acting there, making his stage debut in 1859 as a minor player. As his career developed he later performed in London, playing in a series of increasingly prominent roles. He made his American debut in 1876 in Bulwer-Lytton's Money at Daly's New York theatre. It was not long after this time that Coughlan arrived in Fortune, and it was in Fortune that he penned two plays: “Lady Barter” and “The Royal Box”.

Coughlan’s life was, by all accounts, a thrilling and successful one, as throughout his adult career he continued to split his time between Bay Fortune and the United States, working in the States and relaxing on the Island. He even rose to a fair degree of fame and renown during his lifetime, but it is the case, oddly enough, that his greatest fame was to be found after his death.

In his living years Charles had had some interest in what his death might look like, and it is reported that he once visited a fortune teller who told him that his final resting place would one day be the shores of Prince Edward Island. Such a prediction did not seem out of the question, given his affinity for the province, but fate would soon prove that nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

Coverage of Coughlan's "homing coffin", as it appeared in The Guardian on 26 July 1950.

In his later years he had been acting in Galveston, Texas, when he suddenly fell ill in the Autumn of 1899. Within a month’s time he was dead, and the question then arose as to where to bury his remains. Initially it had been determined that he would be buried in Bay Fortune, but pressure from various acquaintances led officials to determine that his remains would be sent to New York. In the mean time his body had been placed temporarily in the Galveston cemetery.

The decision however proved to be a moot one. Before any action could be taken to move the body, the great Galveston Hurricane of 1900 struck, decimating the cemetery. Many graves were destroyed or washed away, Coughlan’s included. The destruction of this sacred ground, coupled with a multitude of missing bodies, made news headlines across the United States. When Coughlan’s body was still listed as missing several years later, the New York Actor’s Club offered a reward for its safe recovery (10).

None came forward with a reward, and so the story of Coughlan’s coffin was forgotten, that is, until a discovery was made upon the shores of Bay Fortune. Some local fishermen, hauling in their catch of the day, were startled to discover that they had snared something else in their lines. The weight was enormous, and as they pulled it up into their boat they were shocked to discover that it was a coffin. It was a macabre sight to say the least, but what was most astonishing was the name engraved upon the weathered and beaten placard: Charles Coughlan.

It was a stunning discovery, one that was only amplified by the remembrance of the fortune teller’s prediction; come hell or high water, Coughlan had made his way home to the shores of Prince Edward Island, travelling eight years and 2 000 miles, just as had been predicted (12).

A Note Regarding This Story: It appears that as this story has been told and retold throughout the years, that much has been added and much has been missing. What can be said for certain is that Coughlan’s missing body was the truth. Its discovery, however, is somewhat muddied. In fact, the New York Times reported on 15 January 1907 that Coughlan’s body was found in a Texas marsh by some hunters (11)

This is later contradicted when Ripley’s Believe It or Not discussed Coughlan’s case at length in its 1929 book. This book said: “Charles Coghlan comes home! He died in 1899 and was buried in Galveston. When the tragic flood came his coffin was washed out to sea and the Gulf Stream carried him around Florida and up the coast to Prince Edward Island — 2,000 miles distant — where he lived” (9), a story which even The Guardian ​of 1950 reported on (12).

According to research done by the historians of the Galveston Ghost group, “Charles Burney Ward wrote for the Ripley book that Coghlan’s daughter had searched unsuccessfully for 27 years for her father’s remains until she saw the Ripley feature in the Saturday Evening Post.

As Ward told it, Coghlan’s daughter demanded to know where Ripley got his information. Ripley attributed the story to famous Shakespearean actor Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, a contemporary and friend of Coghlan’s. Ripley Entertainment spokesman Edward Meyer said the Coghlan story is one of Ripley’s best known. “We’ve had a lot of questions about this over the years, but mostly from Prince Edward Island,” Meyer said. “It’s definitely a well established part of Ripley lore.”"

The question then arises as to where the truth may lie. Meyer, the Ripley’s spokesman, put it quite simply. “Everything that Ripley printed we stand behind as true to the best of our knowledge” (9).

I leave you to be the judge.

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To learn more about the Actor's Colony, or any part of the Island's history, contact the Red Rock Adventure Company to book a guided bicycle tour today.

It seems that during the summer time on Prince Edward Island that there is simply no end to all that can be seen done no matter which way you turn, and the area surrounding Naufrage Harbour is no exception.

The roads are scenic and calm, and everywhere you go offers sneaking glances of the mighty Gulf of St. Lawrence. Abundant too are the places to cycle to the water’s edge and dip your toes, and it is worth mentioning that the Northside, as it is known, is famous for its sunsets, given that on Prince Edward Island the sun sets on the north.

With that said, we have prepared for you a list of 5 fantastic places to see around Naufrage while riding a bike, and we are certain that you will enjoy them.

A fishing boat leaving Naufrage Harbour, as seen from atop the bridge.

Naufrage Harbour

Stopping at Naufrage Harbour is like taking a trip back in time. Pronounced “New-Frayge”, it is a small fishing community that has never lost its old-fashioned sense of charm. The Shipwreck Point Lighthouse proudly overlooks the water, and every day throughout the summer the harbour bustles as fishermen bring in their catches of lobster and tuna. In fact, many boats offer tuna charters here as well. Tourists are free to stroll about the wharf and watch the day’s catch be landed, and if you are lucky you may even see a huge tuna being landed.

Another one of Naufrage’s most well known attractions is its wooden arched bridge. This one lane road bridge carries traffic across Naufrage harbour, lifting them high up above the water. The view from the bridge is both terrifying and exhilarating, and offers a great vantage point for photos. In fact, the entire harbour is ripe for prime photo opportunities, and the backdrop of sand, sun, and sea offers a beautiful range of settings.

Prince Edward Island is known the world over for its stunning sand dunes, and the Naufrage area is no exception. In fact, the area is unique in its seaside attractions, as it one of the only places in the province that offers both sand dunes and sandstone cliffs contiguously. While the shores of Cow River Beach are known for their beauty, the shores of Bear River are lined with beautiful sand dunes, the same dunes which westward constitute the dunes of Greenwich National Park.

Cycle down the red dirt Bear Shore Road to arrive at Bear River Beach, home of these wondrous dunes. Tip toe your way across the shallow river to fully appreciate the spectacle that these dunes offer. Sand dunes are a product of wind and weather, as the driving winds pile the sand in these extraordinary patterns, not unlike a snow drift. But what really makes the dunes take form is the marram grass which grows upon it, for it is the roots of this grass which serves to anchor sand in place and prevent it from drifting away.

They are a thing of beauty, but be warned: it is an offense to climb upon the dunes, as doing so risks damaging the fragile root systems of the marram grass.​

This photo scarcely does justice to the immensity of the wind farm.

Hermanville Windmills

These windmills need to be seen to be believed. Rising a stunning 92m in height, these windmills can be seen from all around the countryside. They are simply colossal in scale and a wonder to behold. They can be best viewed from either the Northside Road, east of Naufrage, or from the Souris Line Road, south east of Naufrage.

It is a round trip distance of nearly 30km to the windmills and back, but as a casual ride it is certainly worth the effort. The sheer power and scales of these machines will compel you to stop and marvel at them, and it is fascinating to watch the shadows of the blades tumble endless across the road in the evening light.

Perhaps best of all, these windmills are used to generate 100% renewable energy, right here on Prince Edward Island, further cementing our status as Canada’s green province. ​

Prince Edward Distillery

The Prince Edward Distillery is a uniquely Island experience, and one not to be missed. Operated by Arla Johnson and Julie Shore, it is the one and only facility in the entire country to distill pure potato vodka, and it is the only grain vodka in Canada to be flavoured with wild blueberries.

Located approximately 25km round trip from Naufrage, the distillery is a great way to spend the afternoon, with on site purchasing and distillery tours. Learn all about the unique way in which potatoes are turned in vodka here on the Island, and sample some of the product which they have to offer.​

A summer view of the Shipwreck.

Shipwreck Point Cafe

After a long day of cycling, there is no better way to unwind than at the Shipwreck Point Cafe, located centrally at Naufrage Harbour, overlooking the cliffs and offering a waterfront view. It seems that the whole world comes to eat at the Shipwreck, as every night the tables are filled with patrons from all over, united by an intrinsic passion for local food and good company.

The Shipwreck offers down to earth, home cooked meals, and seafood cooked to perfection. They even serve one of the area’s unique specialties, deep fried veggies. You simply must try them! After the meal enjoy a homemade desert, then finish your evening off with a stroll along the cape in the shadow of the Shipwreck Point lighthouse.

To discover more about the area, or to learn all about the exciting guided tours which we offer, visit the Red Rock Adventure Company home page, or check us out on Facebook.

1. Souris Originally named Havre a Souris, which translates to “Mouse Harbour”. Later shortened to Souris, the area got this name after numerous plagues of mice infestations, with one reportedly being so prolific that mice were seen to tumble over the cliffs and into the harbour, to such an extent that passing ships had difficulty navigating the waters. Other names which did not stick were Colville and Red Cliffs.

2. Red HouseNamed for a house built by Edward Abell, the infamous land agent for the area. It was painted red by a Mr. Heal, a notorious coroner who had condemned a man who had committed suicide to be buried opposite the house with a stake driven through his body. The Bay Fortune post office was at Red House until 1880.

3. New ZealandThis name was given in jest 1858 because settlers were going to this place at the same time as some people were departing from Charlottetown for New Zealand with much fanfare.

4. Bear RiverThere are two stories which seek to explain the origin of this name, both of which follow the same theme. One is from a time when it was known to foster many bears along the river, and the other, more memorably, is from when one of the early settlers, Roderick MacDonald, fought and killed a large bear with his bare hands.5. Fortune The etymology of the Fortune area is thought to refer to the ship La Fortune, an English schooner weighing 40 tons which was brought to the area in 1754 by Le Sieur Laborde. This, however, is contradicted somewhat by Rayburn in Geographical Names of Prince Edward Island, as he indicates that "de la Rocque shows Riviere a la Fortune in 1752", two years prior to this schooner. Given this, it is posited that the name may possibly mean "river of riches", and may be a reference to the long lost treasure of Captain Kidd.

6. ChepstowNamed after a settler from Chepstow, Monmouth, Wales. While the name today refers most often to the community proper, at different times Chepstow Point was used. So too was Chepstow Cove, which is located at the bottom of present day MacAulay’s Road, below Steele’s Lane. Chepstow was also once home to a post office and school.7. Rollo BayPreviously Rollo's Bay or Lord Rollo's Bay, is named after Andrew Rollo, 5th Lord Rollo, who was a Scottish army commander in Canada and Dominica during the Seven Years' War, who led the British land forces in the Capture of Dominica on June 6, 1761. Earlier names were Havre a Mathieu and Anse-a-Matieu. These were after Turin Mathieu , who had a family of ten near East Point in 1752.

Lower Rollo Bay, which is today considered to be anything along the Lower Rollo Bay road, was also known as Rollo Bay East, named after the Rollo Bay East Post Office which operated from 1888 to 1904. When the name of the post office was changed in 1904 the postmaster reported that "Lower Rollo Bay is done way with, belongs to ancient history, an anachronism so to speak". Contrary to the postmaster’s claims, the old name still thrives long after Rollo Bay East has disappeared.

8. NaufrageThe name derives from the French word for shipwreck, and stems from the numerous shipwrecks which occurred as early as 1719 that brought the first European population to the area. Many of these settlers remained in the area, and are ancestors of today’s population, while some ventured west and formed the early community of St. Peter’s Bay.

9. St. CharlesNamed after St. Charles Borromeo, who was a prominent member of the church during the 1500s, and who was responsible for significant reforms in the Catholic Church, including the founding of seminaries for the education of priests. Prior to 1896 the area was known as either Groshaut, New Acadia, or Rollo Bay Station. However, with the construction of the church, the area came to be known as St. Charles. The St. Charles Road was known as the Bourke’s Road until around the time it was paved, when the name was changed.

10. Rock BarraThis name is perhaps a little bit tongue-in-cheek. It was named for a rock that stood offshore, now washed away, that reminded one of the early settlers of the Island of Rock Barra in the Hebrides. Furthermore, tradition has it that a first settler, Mclsaac, exclaimed to others that "you might as well be on the rock of Barra" in reference to the barrenness of the land, something which he had hoped to escape by moving here.

11. Black PondNamed for the dark shadow cast by surrounding woods, something which is still apparent to this day. Early Scottish settlers called it Loch Dhu meaning "black lake", a name which many remember from the Loch Dhu Haven campground.

12. BothwellNamed by area resident Joseph McVean who was the one to name the Post Office, from which the area took its name. He chose Bothwell from the situation of "both" himself and his father living "well" side by side. Named around 1863.

13. Gowan BraeFormerly known as "New Bristol". Probably named for John Macgowan, early sheriff of Kings County and mill operator on Souris River The name also suggests "mountain daisy" and "hill" in Scottish. It was a school district in 1865, and had a post office from ca. 1886-1913.

14. GlencorradaleNamed after a resident of the area, a Mr. Haney of Souris Line Road, rose in opposition to an oppressive landlord with the support of his neighbours. Upon hearing about this the government sent soldiers to restore calm, and the uprisers took to the area of present day Glencorradale to hide.

This event recalled in the minds of the uprisers the time in which Prince Charles hid at Glen Caradel on the Isle of Skye after his defeat at Culloden. Noting the similarities, settlers to the area from Inverness, Scotland in 1846 chose the name Glencorradale for the locality

15. Cable HeadSaid to be named for a piece of hemp cable found on the shore, evidently from a vessel. The first settlers called the place Ceann Cable (from the Gaelic "cable end" or "cable head").

16. HermanvilleNamed for Herman McDonald, first settler (circa 1850) and postmaster, who was still living in 1905. Known also for its post office, and for the Hermanville Hotel located in the post office. Other names for this area were Black Brook, Black Bush, and Milton.

17. MonticelloRecords indicate that it was possibly named for the home of Thomas Jefferson in Virginia. Formerly known as Big Marsh and Big Cape.

18. Campbell’s CoveNamed for Angus Campbell, resident there when the area was surveyed in 1808. Home to a post office from 1896-1913. Campbells Point, adjacent to the cove, may have been the first part of PEI sighted by Jacques Cartier in 1534.

19. ElmiraNamed by George B. McEachern in 1872 for Elmira, New York. It was selected for its euphony. Formerly called Portage because it was on the route from North Lake to South Lake.20. Priest PondThis name has been in use since at least as early as 1832. It is suggested that it was named for Bishop MacEachern. Earlier records provide the name as Railing Bridge.

21. New HarmonyPossibly derived from the area of Harmony Junction, where farmers of French, Scottish, Irish and English nationalities had settled and presumably lived amicably.

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This article is the second in a series which continues to explore the rich history and heritage of Eastern Prince Edward Island. It is our hope that these stories provide you with a taste of what our cultural tours have to offer. To read an earlier installment of stories, click here.

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To spot a bear in the woods was a fearsome sight indeed. 1930s post card.

The Last Great Bear

Island history is rife with stories of bears, such that they almost border on legend. An ever present danger in the lives of early Island settlers, stories and fears of bears permeated the minds of these people, and even the sighting of a bear was enough to set the hearts and minds of Islanders on edge.

At Norris Pond, near Souris, it is remembered that a bear once attacked a man walking home from the pond. The bear pounced upon the man, who was taken by surprise and caught completely off guard. He had no weapon with which to defend himself, and so in desperation he drove his arm down the bear’s throat and pulled out his organs, thus killing him.

Another story from Red Point relates the untimely death of a bull at the hands of a bear. The bear, seeing the bull alone in the field, attacked it in a rage, climbing upon the poor creature. The bull though was not to go down without a fight. It carried the bear upon its back as it ran wildly towards the farmyard, and it was later, after the bear had proven victorious, that the farmer could see the desperate claw marks of the bear against the trees as it struggled to keep hold of the raging bull (4).

And while the entire Island encountered their fair share of bears over the years, one would not be amiss to suggest that Eastern Prince Edward Island shared a particular connection to the bruin lot. In fact, it had been reported in The Guardian, as early as 1862, that "bears are becoming very numerous and exceedingly troublesome east of Souris.”

Islanders have long been intrigued by power and majesty of the bear. This "dancing bear", chained to its owners, appeared in Charlottetown in 1890s. PARO PEI Photo.

One need only look at the places which “bear” the name of the fearsome creature to understand what role they played in the pioneer psyche. Basin Head was once named Bear Harbour (4), as was Black Pond (Loch Dhu), while today’s Little Harbour beach had a unique stoney outcropping called Bear Rock.

​These names have largely disappeared, save for Bear River, which retains its reference to its grizzly past. The place boasts a dual claim to the animal; both from a time when it was known to foster many bears along the river, and more memorably, when one of the early settlers, Roderick MacDonald, fought and killed a large bear with his bare hands. (5)But most notorious of all in the Souris area is the story of the last great bear, a story which is known across the Island. According to Hornby, the last bear to have been killed on Prince Edward Island was killed on 7 February 1927. It was shot on the Souris Line Road by George and Bernard Leslie, who were 16 and 18 at the time, respectively. The event was reported on as the headline for the Evening Patriot on 8 February 1927 (6), and in The Guardian the next morning. It all began when the boys noticed the tracks of a bear crossing the north end of Souris Line Road, heading east. There had a been a spring thaw, and the boys knew that a bear would be active in that sort of weather. They didn’t tell their father about the sighting, saying that “he’d ruin the whole thing on us; he’d have to come”(6). Instead, they waited until the next day, until their father had left for Souris. With him gone, the hunt was on.

Taken from The Guardian. 9 February 1927.

They tracked the bear all through morning, and it wasn’t until about one o’clock in the afternoon that they found it. It was risky work, following the trail of a wild bear, as it could have appeared from the thickets at any time. Doggedly the boys pursued their target, until at last, through the undergrowth, they spotted the animal. To their surprise, it was asleep.The boys held the perfect vantage point from the thickets, and George made the first move. He fired his shotgun from a distance of about 15 feet, striking the bear in the hip. The next shot caught it in the side of the neck. The bear sprang onto its hind legs, bellowing in a rage, but the boys didn’t retreat. The bear was clearly injured, and it soon fell to the ground in weakness. George stepped closer to his prize and took one more shot at it. Gunfire rang out, the clearing fell silent, and the Island's last great bear was dead.

The carcass weighed over 400 pounds, and was skinned on the spot by the two boys. It was later boiled for its grease, and the grease was sent to England. For the grease they received $14, a considerable sum for two young boys at the time.

Greenwich was once a prominent farming locale.

The Shifting Sands

It seems fitting to include an entry about Greenwich National Park, as for the 2017 season all National Parks are open free to the public to celebrate Canada’s 150th birthday.

Greenwich has a long and colorful history, dating all the way back to the Mi’Kmaq who fished off of its shores, and was a home to the earliest French settlers who migrated there from their shipwreck at Naufrage. For many years, before it was designated a National Park, the land around Greenwich was even farmed by locals in the area. Many changes have taken place at Greenwich throughout this time, but one thing that has always remained constant is the shifting sand dunes which dominate the area.

In the years surrounding the turn of the twentieth century, the Greenwich sand dunes were as imposing as ever. In those days they were known as “the Commons”, and were fenced in entirely (1). Within the Commons all of the local farmers’ animals were set to pasture, and they would not need to be collected until the fall when the cool weather set it. Each animal was marked with the farmer’s specific brand, so that the animal could be distinguished (1).

The Commons, it seems, was little good for much else, as any Islander who has lived near the shore can tell you. The sand is just too unpredictable. Take for example the flow of Cow River, which can, on the nightly, reset its course across the sands and in the morning appear as a new river entirely. Or, consider the open run near Bothwell which drains South Lake; it shifts east or west each year depending on the winter’s storms and tides, and has consistently been moving east for the past hundred years or so.

The Greenwich dunes "Commons", as they appeared in 1935. Note the proximity of farmer's fields to the sand. Courtesy Government of Prince Edward Island.

And so it is these shifting sands which leads to our story. As the tale goes, Mr. Lambert VanOmme (originally from Holland), and his friend Herman, were walking across the sand dunes in the Commons, when, entirely unexpectedly, they came across the remnants of an old tree rising out of the sand, above their heads. Neither men, in all of their time living there, had ever seen this tree before. And to make things even stranger, resting beside the tree was an ancient looking axe, one of the old fashioned two-bitted blades.

This was a cause for concern for these two men, as there were no footprints leading from the tree into the sand, leaving no evidence of how the mysterious tree or axe could have appeared (1).Amazed by the discovery, Mr. Lambert took the axe with him, and back on the farm he showed it to his neighbour, Mr. Cyril Sanderson. Cyril listened to Mr. Lambert’s story, and he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the axe which Mr. Lambert held. Cyril recognized the blade immediately.

​“That’s Leith’s Sanderson’s axe,” he told Mr. Lambert with incredulity. Cyril explained that he and Leith had been walking through the Commons, decades ago, when some early winter weather set in. The two were in a hurry to get home, and Leith had leaned the axe against the tree, intending to return for it the next day. However the sand moved in upon it and buried it along with the tree, as fast as that. And just as quickly as it had been buried, it was unearthed, entirely unmoved in the place it had last been set. As Cyril added, “the wind can carry the sand faster than any backhoe can take it.” (1)

Kings County is known for its abundance of springs, filled with clear, cool water that flows year-round, and it is perhaps even better known for some of the miraculous properties behind these springs.

St. Charles has its famous Roaring Springs, Naufrage has its Spring Pool waterfall (complete with stories of fairy sightings), Cobbler’s Spring flows near Basin Head, and the Glen is home to Fountain Head. But of all the springs in the area, there is no story more enthralling than that of the Curing Springs, near Selkirk.

Hidden away from the wandering eye, deep in the woods along the Curtis Road, is a small spring which has been known as the Curing Spring for over two hundred years. It is said to cure sickness and illness, either by drinking the water, or by applying it to the body (1). And while this alone would be a sensational claim, the story of its origin makes it all the more intriguing.

As the story goes, well over two hundred years ago, there was once a missionary who was travelling in the area who became desperately thirsty. At that time there were few roads and the holy man had no reassurance of when he would next come across a home that could offer him a quenching glass of water. And so he paused, deep in prayer, and pleaded with Providence to provide him the water which he sought.

​The immediate effects of this prayer remain unknown, but when the missionary later returned to the site of his prayer, he found that, to his amazement, a small spring had emerged out of the ground and was now flowing from that very spot (1). The missionary took it be an indication of divine intervention.

The Curing Spring, as it came to be known, was highly regarded by the people of the area, and Hughie Joseph MacDonald remembered seeing a cross erected there, complete with prayer beads and other religious artifacts (1). He also said that anyone who had ever consumed an alcoholic drink would be unable to find the place (1). Whether this remains true, is hard to tell, but the Curing Spring continues to flow to this very day (1).

The famous Nellie J. Banks, under the direction of Captain Dicks, was the leading figure in rum-running off of the north side of Eastern Prince Edward Island.

Northside Rum Running​There are few alive today who fully remember the impact that rum-running had on the Island, but it is still well known that the North shore of King’s County, with the help of ships like the Nellie J. Banks, was one the focal points of the whole ordeal.

Prince Edward Island had enacted prohibition early on, ratifying the Scott Act in 1901. This alone was reason enough for Islanders to seek out other means of procuring and imbibing the dangerous drink, but they soon set their sights on a bigger target. In 1920, when the United States enacted prohibition, rum-runners found themselves poised to reap a fortune by supplying smuggled rum to the parched hordes of Americans who now found themselves dry.Fate, it seemed, had dealt island smugglers a perfect hand.

The little-known island of St. Pierre and Miquelon, which belongs to France, was one of the only jurisdictions in North America which was not subject to prohibition. And as luck would have it for Island rum-runners, ships departing from St. Pierre and Miquelon were within close proximity to Prince Edward Island’s waters. Once this connection was made, the stage was set, and Islander’s began smuggling rum at an unprecedented rate.

The set-up was clever in its simplicity; a twelve-mile limit had been established by the provincial government, and anyone found to be in possession of alcohol within this limit was under the jurisdiction of Prince Edward Island. The waters outside of twelve miles though were anyone’s game. Ships from St. Pierre and Miquelon would be scheduled to arrive at a certain time and place, just outside the limit and always under the cover of night. Local men, typically on fishing boats, would then sail out to meet the ships, buy the rum, and head back to shore.

Great care had to be paid though, lest they be apprehended by the authorities, and in response to this ever present threat all manners of cunning schemes were devised to evade authorities. One such scheme was to arrange to meet the French ships based upon the cycles of the tide, so that when the rum was loaded onto the Islander’s boats they would reach the shore at low tide.

​Then, instead of moving the rum as the police may have expected, it would be buried in the exposed sand bar and hidden away, safe from accidental discovery or interference. That way officers found only empty vehicles at their checkpoints. Several nights later, when there was no tip-off of any rum arrivals, the rum-runners would return to the beach and unearth their buried treasure.

The Glen, located northeast of Souris, provided another convenient hiding place for stashed rum, and offered a hidden transport route from north to south.

But the most clever method of all was one recalled by an old timer who was only a young boy at the time, who was out on one of his first runs when they were intercepted by a police boat. All of the bottles of rum had been hidden in burlap sacks of sugar, but the boy was convinced that the police would still find them.

Panicked, he threw all the sacks overboard, where they sunk to the bottom. This ensured that the police found no trace of rum, but the rum-runner was so angry that he threatened to throw the boy overboard. He was spared only by a disturbance which the Captain noticed upon the water. The boy looked, and to his disbelief he saw that the sacks which had sunk to the bottom were now floating alongside the boat. All of the sugar had slowly dissolved, and the rum and floated back to the top.

​The boy had saved the day, and a new method had been discovered to evade the watchful eyes of the police, something which continued to the very end of prohibition on Prince Edward Island in 1948.

MacKinnon's Mill Stones, as they appear in the Archives of Prince Edward Island. George Leard photo.

MacKinnon’s Mill Stones

Sometimes in history it is some of the most seemingly insignificant objects that tell the greatest story. This is certainly the case in the story of MacKinnon’s Mill Stones, which demonstrates the sheer dedication and willpower that our early Island ancestors displayed in carving out a living from what was, at the time, an often inhospitable place.

The story began with an Acadian mill that once stood near present day Big Pond. Little is known of this mill, save for the fact that those who once owned it were most likely driven out during the Acadian expulsion. It wasn’t until Archie MacPhee, when he leased this property from landowner John Stewart, began his farm on the Big Pond property that he discovered two large and well crafted mill stones which the Acadians had left behind. One stone weighed in at around 60 pounds, while the other, larger stone was 75 pounds. More crucially, they were engraved with the year 1741, which offered MacPhee a clue as to their origin (2).

Simply finding these old stones was story enough, but what makes them remarkable is the story of their journey from Big Pond, on the north side of the Island, to Red Point, on the south side. Archie MacPhee had no use for the stones, and he put them aside as he went about life on his farm.

But memory of them remained, and in the 1820s, John MacKinnon, who was newly arrived at Red Point, heard about the Acadian stones (2). He was desperate to establish a mill, and needed stones. There were no other stones available at the time, nor would he have had the money to buy new ones. And so, without any other option, John MacKinnon set out for Big Pond.

This trek in itself is noteworthy, for unlike today there was no simple road from Red Point to Big Pond. We know only that he followed “the old French trail” which wound its way through the woods (a trail which could possibly have been a precursor to the present day Baltic Road). Once in Big Pond he negotiated the purchase of the mill stones from Archie MacPhee, but MacKinnon was still faced with the colossal task of getting them home, a distance of some 15 kilometres.

​Undaunted, MacKinnon rose to the challenge. As Deacon Scott recounted the story in the 1890s, MacKinnon padded the shoulders of his shirt with sod, and then by passing a spike through the center of the mill stone he gripped it and lifted it onto his back (2).

Then the tedious work began; step by step MacKinnon made his way south with the burdensome load, until he had progressed the distance of a mile. There he stopped, set down the weight, and returned to MacPhee’s farm for the second stone. This he carried a mile before stopping to rest beside its brother. After a time he resumed his labour, carrying the stone another mile. This he repeated, walking each mile thrice, with two of the three under the burden of a stone, until he had reached his home at Red Point (2).

This Herculean feat proved to be John MacKinnon’s greatest doing, as the story was told for years to come. The stones were employed near Little Harbour, at what is today known as MacKinnon’s Point, named after the very man who brought them there. The stones themselves received great recognition as well; they once ground the meal to serve Bishop MacEachern when he visited, and today they reside in the Prince Edward Island Archives (2).

A late 1800s trade card depicting the apparition of a forerunner.

Bear River's Forerunner

Certainly anyone familiar with Island lore has heard tell of the forerunner: a ghostly spectre whose appearance is said to foretell impending disaster or loss. Forerunners often appear as a visual premonition of sorts, an impossible visit or conversation with an ailing loved one, or the sighting of something that couldn’t possibly be, only to find out that it was a vision of what was to come. Tales of forerunners stretch from St. Peter’s, up the north side through Monticello, all the way to East Point.

One story of an encounter with a forerunner which is particularly memorable is that of Denny Costello (3). Denny was an avid fisherman, and one night, after a long day fishing at Naufrage, he was walking home alone down the Bear River road. Night had fallen, and as the human mind is wont to do, Denny began to imagine that he was seeing things that were not there.

He did his best to dispel the notion, but he could not shake the feeling that he was not entirely alone. This sense of presence continued as he walked down the dark, lonely road, until at last he spotted the cause of his vexation. There, ahead of him on the road, was a dark figure.

Denny stopped suddenly in his tracks, eyes locked on the apparition before him, and the creature stopped too. Eyes trained on this menace, Denny took a few steps forward, but the figure retreated, as if to evade him. He slowed to a crawl, taking cautious steps onward, but so too did the creature. Terrified, Denny removed his cap, said a prayer, and blessed himself. When he donned the cap once more and looked ahead of him on the road, the creature had disappeared entirely, as if it had never been there. Relieved, Denny hurried home, thanking the Lord for His intervention and not wishing to test his faith any further.

All the way home Denny’s mind replayed the scenario in his head, and he could make no sense of it. It wasn’t until he was in his porch, by the lamplight, that he removed his cap and found that a long thread had been torn loose by a snag when he had been fishing. This thread, he discovered, was just long enough to dangle in front of his vision as he had walked down the road, a fitting explanation for his otherworldly vision.

​As Kay MacIsaac tells, this became a popular topic of torment for poor Denny. From then on, when someone met him on the road, the greeting was always “Hey Denny, did you see any forerunners this evening?” (3)

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Eastern Prince Edward Island has a diverse and fascinating history, filled with stories that have been handed down from one generation to another. The Red Rock Adventure Company is proud to share and preserve these tales, and some of the most memorable ones have been related below.

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MacMillan's house would not have been much different than the building pictured in the background here.

North Lake’s Floating House (1923)​Homes weren’t always as sturdy as they are today, and many people lived as best as they could afford. This sometimes led to people building their home in less than ideal places, such as too near the shore, or even on the sand.

Such was the case with Joseph MacMillan and his family at North Lake. They were living very near to the shore in a building at North Lake which had been owned by Matthew & MacLean (1).

One night there was a powerful storm surge, and owing to the lack of sand dunes at North Lake at the time, the little house and all of its occupants were washed straight across North Lake, landing in Kenneth Fraser’s field. The house remained completely intact in the move (1).

The family was jarred awake by this sudden disruption, and all were forced to scramble upstairs as the surging waters worked its way into the house. A plank was extended from the upstairs window, and the entire family slid down the plank to make a safe escape (1). The house was later found to be beyond repair.

The Matthew and McLean Lobster Factory below Breakwater Street. Strople would have fallen from the cliffs on the left of the image. Note the Souris Lighthouse in the background on the right.

Axe Handle Night: Souris’ Worst Riot (12 October 1888)

​The 1880s was a fighting period among the youth of the Souris area, as it was in many other parts of the Island, and the availability of cheap and accessible liquor did little to improve matters (2).

Souris at the time was also home to numerous hotels which welcomed unknown visitors to the area year round, and its harbour was always filled with boisterous seamen who bunked on their own ships.

As such, it was a perfect storm for those looking to start trouble (2). And while there had been clashes before, there is nothing yet that rivals Axe Handle Night.

The incident began near the old Carleton store around 8 o’clock in the evening (2). Joseph Doyle, a Souris merchant and banker, was spotted being attacked by drunken sailors.

James Dunphy, a Souris saddler, ran to his rescue, and soon they were both badly injured. The alarm was raised, and a throng of locals took to the streets against these rioting fishers.

Both sides armed themselves with sticks and axe handles (2). Further clashes ensued, but the Souris locals were successful in driving these unruly men back towards the wharf. Several rioters were captured and locked up for the night (2).

Things did not end so well for everyone, however. One sailor, a Joseph Strople, was fleeing from those Souris men, and in his drunkenness did not make the turn onto Breakwater Street. Instead he careened over the bank, near the present day Sailor’s Memorial, and tumbled to his death upon the rocks (2).

The rioters who were arrested that night were each fined $50, which was considered to be a large and excessive fine at that time. Other charges included “fighting on the shore on the Sabbath”, for which those found guilty were charged $2, and being “drunk and disorderly”.

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Before the harbour was opened, fishermen were forced to set sail from shore.

North Lake Harbour Opens (7 December 1917)

​To view North Lake one hundred years ago would be to view a very different sight. At that time North Lake was very much a freshwater lake.

Fed then, as it is today, by water from Fountain Head, there were only a few small streams permitting overflow to escape to into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and there was no harbour for fishing whatsoever (1).

Efforts were made to cut a channel from the lake to the present day opening of the harbour, as it was deemed to be the ideal location, but the hand tools available to the workers at that time made the job an impossibility.

Consider the amazement then, on the stormy morning of December 7 1917, when word spread around that a storm surge had broken open the sand around the lake and had joined it to the ocean (1). In 1922 the first bridge was built, and North Lake has boomed as a fishing harbour ever since.

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Ice foes, similar to these in Georgetown, brought countless seals to the men in Red Point.

The Red Point Seal Hunt (April 1846)

Funds and supplies had grown low after a long winter in Red Point, and residents of the area were longing for the warmth of spring.

But instead of spring winds, April brought forth a terrible easterly gale which was sufficient to send a massive sheet of ice onto Red Point beach (1). Some men went down to investigate this April ice, and to their surprise they found that it was populated by countless seals.

These seals, which would normally bear their pups far out at sea, had been carried by the wind to Red Point, and the local men headed quickly for the ice field to hunt them (1).

The work was highly profitable, given the vast number of seals, but the men became so engrossed in the task that they failed to notice that the wind had shifted, and just as it had carried the seals inland, it had now washed these men out to sea.

Things looked dire indeed: they had no provisions, night was falling, and all of their own fishing boats had been hauled up onto shore for the winter. Luckily, those who remained onshore noted the growing absence of the men, and had wits enough about them to launch the boats and embark upon a rescue mission.

Such quick action proved to be the saving grace of the seal hunters, who otherwise would have perished at sea. No lives were lost as all the men piled into the small rescue boats, but no space remained for the dozens of seal pelts which the men had worked so hard far.

​These were abandoned, and the next morning a Dutch sealing schooner could be seen taking on board those pelts which the Red Point crew had worked so hard for (1).

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An early car in Souris, thought to be on the Souris River Road, and possibly belonging to Morley Acorn.

The First Car In Souris (~1915)

The development of roadways in the Souris area was a process which took place over the past 200 years, and one that is arguably still taking place to this day. Roads in the town of Souris proper are speculated to have originally been cow paths (2), and even what is present day Route 2 began merely as a series of interconnected trails leading from one farm to another.

It wasn’t until 1820 that an official road was established connecting the Fortune area to what would become the Town of Souris.

Even as the 20th century dawned and rumors of the automobile began to make their way towards Eastern PEI, the roadway remained less than desirable. Individual land owners still retained rights to the property which the road was on, and as such the road was impeded by countless fences, posts, and gates which were intended to keep their livestock on their own property.

A rider or motorist would be forced, at every property, to dismount and open the gate, drive through, and then latch the gate behind him.

This proved to be problematic, and Charles Wright, Overseer of Roads, ordered the removal of “all fences, swinging gates, bars or other obstructions placed in the road at the expense of the offending party”, or else they would face a fine (2). It should also be noted that this decree forbid road construction workers from “illegally stopping travellers to obtain rum.”

As for the first car in Souris, the claim is a much disputed one. Doc Smallwood owned an early 490 Chevrolet (likely a 1915), while Erskine P. Stavert, the bank manager, is remembered to have competed in an impromptu race with a horse in the early days of motoring.

Most memorable though was the arrival of Arthur McQuaid’s Briscoe car. Finlay McLeod drove it home from Charlottetown for him on a rainy day; it was a road closed day but he had a special permit.

​A local blacksmith in the Marshfield area, existentially threatened by cars and their new way of life, threatened to assail McLeod with a heavy hammer as he crossed through his property, and it took much convincing for him (and the car) to escape unscathed.

Dr. Augustine MacDonald

The Miracle Operation (1908)

To this day Dr. Gus is remembered almost as folk hero in the Souris area, and perhaps rightly so.

His caring, commitment, and dedication to the people of this area was unwavering and unparalleled, and had it not been for him, tragedy would have struck the area more times than one would like to imagine.

While Dr. Gus is much remembered for delivering babies and healing the sick (not to mention his death-bed request to mark every bill owing in his ledger as “paid”), but he is surely most remembered for the miracle operation he performed upon the young A.J. MacCormack in 1908 (3).

Poor A.J., who was only four years old at the time, was run over by a mower while he was in the grain field near his home in St. Margarets, severing his feet from his legs (3). By the time Dr. Gus arrived, several hours later, it was thought that the legs and feet would need to be amputated entirely to avoid the risk of a fatal infection (3).

A.J.’s mother would not accept this fate for her son, and she refused to let the doctor leave until he agreed to try to save the feet (3). Dr. Gus placed the unconscious boy on the kitchen table, washed his feet in a solution of water and bichloride mercury, and operated for several hours. As Dr. Gus would later remark, only a few tendons and blood vessels remained (3).

​To the amazement of all, surely even the doctor, the operation was a success, and A.J. learned to walk again, albeit with a limp. The story was published on the front page of The Guardian, and is still told in local folklore today (3).

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Naufrage Lighthouse as it appeared in 1917. Image provided via Lighthouse Friends, courtesy of the Canadian Coast Guard.

Naufrage Lighthouse Keeper (1917)​

Naufrage, the French word for shipwreck, is an aptly named place, as it has a past littered with wreckage and tragedy against the merciless sea.

In fact, the first settlers to area were survivors of a shipwreck, and this tendency for wrecks against the unyielding rocks of the Naufrage coast has continued for centuries to come.

Given this, there was a strong desire to erect a lighthouse at Naufrage, in hopes of saving innocent lives at sea. And so, in 1913, a lighthouse was built on the western side of the present day Naufrage bridge (4).

Frank MacKinnon served as the first lighthouse keeper until 1917, when he tragically drowned on setting day while working on the water (4). Even with Frank’s death it was essential that the lighthouse remain operational, especially with so many lobster fishermen out on the water, and Frank’s son Neil, who was only 8 years old at the time, was the only one who knew how to operate it.

Despite the loss of his father, Neil rose to the occasion and instructed the men of the community on the operation of the light, and thanks to his fortitude no other lives were lost that terrible night (4).

This still left Naufrage without a lighthouse keeper, and so Frank’s wife Sarah stepped into the role. It was quite unusual to have a woman as a lighthouse keeper, but Sarah rose to the occasion. When one night the mechanism that rotated the light broke down, Sarah spent the entire night revolving the lens by hand. She later received a letter of commendation from a passing captain at having held her post so diligently.

​Sarah MacKinnon certainly proved her mettle, and she held the job as lighthouse keeper until 1922.

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The only purported photo of the picnic at Groshaut known to exist. Courtesy University of Maine archives.

The Picnic at Groshaut is now an almost forgotten part of our Island heritage, but its story still manages to live on in the memory of those locals who pass the tale down from one generation to the next.

It was an event that, despite its genteel name, brought a mark of notoriety to an otherwise quiet area, for the Picnic at Groshaut marked one of the most raucous and uproarious days that the Eastern end of Prince Edward Island had ever witnessed. In fact, such a spectacle has never been since.

An old fashioned picnic in the King's County area. This one took place in Fortune.

Picnics and Places

There are many who would observe that little has changed on Prince Edward Island over the past hundred or so odd years.

​One can still find their way down a winding country road, and revel in the unspoiled scenery which seems to expel a certain sense of nostalgia, creating a warm and vibrant image in one’s mind of days gone by.

It was a simpler time in many regards, punctuated by a strong connection to community and culture, a connection without which most would not have survived.

And while many things on Prince Edward Island remain the same, some traditions do change. Nowadays, in our all too busy and often hectic life, we find entertainment behind our screens and devices.

But, at the close of the nineteenth century, entertainment was an altogether different matter. It was a time when people sought, and found, entertainment and pastime in the company of others, and one of the most popular pastime’s in Island life back in those days were church picnics.

As Rossiter explains, “it was customary at that time to have a picnic or tea parties” (3).

Reminiscent of Anne Shirley’s visions of an ice-cream social, these church picnics were just as you would imagine: they offered games and activities for the children, food and drink for the adults, with song and dance for the entertainment of all (1).

They were much heralded events, and those church picnics which had garnered a reputation for splendor were widely attended. Such was the case of the Picnic at Groshaut, which drew in crowds from as far away as Charlottetown.

This alone is an impressive feat, given the miniscule nature of Groshaut itself. In fact, Groshaut (which, in Meacham’s 1880 atlas was spelled Grosheaut), is so small that in modern times has, quite literally, fallen off of the map.

Small, yet undaunted, the people of Groshaut worked hard to construct a church of their own, and when it was built it was named St. Charles Catholic Church, and in 1925 the area was incorporated under the name St. Charles. While some farmers still use the name Groshaut as a reference point for their fields, it is a rare case to hear mention of the term Groshaut nowadays.

Located on the present day Selkirk Road (Route 309), north of the Island Waste Management facility, the area is broadly referred to as Selkirk or St. Charles, depending upon who you ask, and there is no indication that Groshaut, as it were, ever existed.

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An early aerial photo of St. Charles Catholic Church.

​Noblest IntentionsEarly records indicate that the people of Groshaut and the surrounding areas built their present day church in 1896.

Although it is only a modest wooden structure, its outward appearance belies its inner intricacy.

No expense was spared in the creation of the hardwood interior, something that still delights the eye to this day. Ornate carvings and wordwork decorate the entire space, all the way up to the very rafters, and it is noted that "a wood-worker from Charlottetown was hired to do the decorative carving on the pillars and the vaulted ceiling."

These beautiful works of art were not cheap though, and so it was determined that a church picnic would be held, in order to raise money to assist in paying for the costs associated with the new church.

Planning commenced in earnest, and attendance was expected to be large. The Groshaut area was already well known for their picnics, and their practice of placing advertisements in The Guardian, the Island’s provincial paper, served to draw in more picnickers.

​Furthermore, the St. Charles train station (which at this time was known as Rollo Bay station), was very close to Groshaut, and as a result it permitted people to arrive by train, a method which was both cost-effective and timely.​

More Than Cider Inside Her

The stage was set for a grand old fundraiser. Most notably, Father Walker, the new parish priest, had procured an order for several casks of sweet apple cider, a much loved local drink, and he had done so at a bargain rate (1).

However, as it would soon prove to be the case, a mix up had taken place with the order and Father Walker had received, unwittingly, an entire shipment of alcoholic cider.

And while even today we can imagine what havoc this could cause, it is imperative to point out how problematic this would have been in 1897 (1).

As Ives notes, “strong drink was ritually forbidden” (1), and it would only be two years before Prince Edward Island began to move towards total prohibition.

However, this didn’t mean that alcohol was an entirely foreign thing to those planning a picnic at Groshaut, for Ives also notes that alcohol “could usually be found, if not on the grounds at least conveniently close by off them” (1)

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Some of the local area men, around the turn of the century, many of whom likely attended the Picnic at Groshaut.

​The Picnic at GroshautThe morning of the picnic dawned, and many men arrived to help with the set up and operations. It had rained the day before, and people were eager to get outside and enjoy themselves (3).

However, the weather did not appear to be co-operating and it soon looked to be the case that the picnic would have to be called off.

This news was disappointing, and so the men, before heading home for the day, decided to try a drink of the cider to cheer themselves up. Well, they certainly found it cheerful!

No one is really sure about the details surrounding this pivotal point: did the men know what they were doing? It was entirely against decorum to be drunk in public, let alone at a church picnic, under the scrutinizing eyes of Father Walker.

However, this cider would have offered a perfect excuse to do so. Whether the men knew or not, that fact is lost to time. The results of the actions, though, are not.

As Rossiter writes, “when it was discovered that there had been a mistake in the order, and most people had been drinking hard cider… the picnic that summer day in 1897 took a turn for the worse” (3)

One drink soon led to another, and it wasn’t long before that rainy field was filled with tipsy men who were looking for a good time. Words turned to boasts, boasts turned to shoves, and before too long the entire picnic was alight with curses, bravado, and blows.

As Rossiter recalls, “there was a lot of scrapping, and it was a noisy, rough time… there had been a lot of strong drink going and mostly everybody was half full” (3).

Things were certainly beyond Father Walker’s control at this point, and to make it worse, the rain had subsided and the sun had come out in full force.

Word of the cancellation didn’t get very far, and the warmth of that sunny afternoon was too alluring to be missed.

​Despite Father Walker’s wishes, a crowd was descending upon the picnic grounds, with more expected on the afternoon train.

Far from the typical picnic scene, as pictured here, the Picnic at Groshaut was something altogether different.

‘Twas a Frolic None The Less

What this crowd saw when they arrived on the grounds was the stuff of legend.

Instead of the pastoral scene of picnickers and pleasantry, attendees were stunned to witness the muddy mess of the drunken men.

It was a spectacle never before seen in Groshaut, but somehow, the crowd was undaunted and took to the celebration like none other.

The picnic continued against all rules of decorum (2), and was such that never again was rivalled.

Doyle writes that “there was scuffles through the crowd and the noise was rather loud” as people continued to arrive, and explains that even the “old men with foreheads bare threw their dusters in the air/ Wanting someone for to fight them at Groshaut” (1).

The dancing was frenzied, the drink continued to flow, and there appeared to be nothing that Father Walker could do about it. On the contrary, it proved to be one of the most successful picnics that the church ever held.

By the end of the day Father Walker was mortified, not only at the behavior of his parishioners, but at the fact that this was to be a two day event.

There was no way he could permit such debauchery for a second day, and so “after it was all over and everyone had been sent home, he carefully and heavily watered what remained in the kegs, and the next day everything was sober and uneventful.”(1)​

One of the old roads which led to Groshaut.

A Musical Legend

The story of the Picnic at Groshaut was one retold time and time again, and it must be remembered that St. Charles church stands in such prominence as a result of the funds raised from this memorable day.

However, like many events of the past, what really cemented the Picnic at Groshaut into the folk memory of the Island was its musical retelling by Lawrence Doyle, the “Farmer Poet of PEI” (3).

Doyle was a man of many trades, and he lived his entire life in an old homestead on the Fortune Road (which is now known as the Main Road, Route 2), near Farmington.

In the Meacham 1880 atlas he is listed as the postmaster for Farmington, and also worked variably as a sort of vet, a carpenter, and as an impromptu lawyer who prepared wills and deeds (3). Rossiter recounts that he even prepared bodies for funerals (3).

He was a colorful man, but he is best remembered for his musical ability. He wrote countless famous folk songs and his song “The Picnic at Groshaut” is no exception.

The lyrics detail the events described above using his usual wit and satirical view, but they serve also to give us a first-hand account of the event (albeit perhaps with some embellishment).

​The song remains popular to this day, and can be still heard in the kitchens of the Kings County from time to time. To listen to the song, or to view the lyrics, click here.

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A view of the present day Groshaut demonstrates that very little has changed in the intervening years.

All's Well That Ends Well

Despite Father Walker’s disapproval, the Picnic at Groshaut proved to be memorable in more ways than one, and it must be noted that even Father Walker must have had some ability to laugh over it all, for church picnics were held subsequently for the next few years, well into the new century.

​And while there was no doubt a great crowd at the Picnic of Groshaut of 1898, there was no way that it could have lived up to its predecessor. As Rossiter concludes, “there were picnics held in Groshaut after 1897… but they weren’t always rowdy like this one” (3).

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